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The Cambridge History of English and American Literature in 18 Volumes (190721). Volume XIII.

The Victorian Age, Part One.

X. Dickens. 6. The Old Curiosity Shop.

This ebullience of creative faculty (to borrow once more from Coleridge, though from a less admirable phrase) is, however, notoriously subject to boiling over; and it certainly does so in the misplaced ingenuity of the framework which, for a time, enshrined, and very far from adorned, the next two books, The Old Curiosity Shop and Barnaby Rudge. There are two explanations, though they can hardly be called excuses, of the mistake of Master Humphreys Clock. One is that Dickens (whose strong sense of his predecessors is never to be forgotten, though it often is) had not freed himself from that early difficulty of the novelist the nervous idea that, in some way, he ought to account to his readers for the way in which he got his information. The other is that the period of publicationweekly not monthly suggested the necessity of some vehicle to excuse and convey the actual works. However, this framework soon proved itself (as it was bound to do) not merely a superfluity but a nuisance; and Dickens (who, if he was not a perfect critic, was, as has been said, a born man of business) got rid of it. The transient, embarrassed [and still more embarrassing] phantom of Master Humphrey still hinders, without in the least helping, the overture of The Old Curiosity Shop; with the actual text of Barnaby Rudge, it, fortunately, does not interfere at all. In the more recent reprints of Dickenss miscellaneous remains, the reader may, if he choses, read so much of the framework as was actually written; but, except for critical purposes, he had much better not. The belated club machinery of the Tatler tradition works to no satisfaction; and the inset tales (with the possible exception, to some extent, of Gog and Magog) take us back to the level of the Sketches. The frequently falsified maxim as to the badness of sequels has, perhaps, never been more thoroughly justified than in the unfortunate resurrection of the Pickwick group; and the additions to them are wholly uninteresting. For one good thing, it taught him never to reintroduce his charactersa proceeding successful enough with some other authors, but which the very stuff and substance of his own form of creation forbade. But, if the attempted, and, fortunately, abortive, husk or shell was worthless, the twin nuts or kernels were very far from being so. The Old Curiosity Shop, like all Dickenss novels without exception 10 save The Pickwick Papers, contains a tragic or, at least, sentimental element; at the time, that element attracted most attention and it has, perhaps, attracted most favourable or unfavourable comment since. On the vexed question of little Nell, there is no need to say much here. She ravished contemporaries, at least partly because she was quite new. 11 She often, though not always, disgusted the next age. That wise compromise for which there is seldom room at first has withdrawn the objections to herself, while, perhaps, retaining those to her grandfather, as (except at the very last) an entirely unnatural person, especially in speech, and one of Dickenss worst borrowings from the lower stage. But it has been, perhaps, insufficiently noticed that, except in her perfectly natural and unstage-like appearances with Kit, with Codlin and Short and elsewhere, she could be cut out of the book with little loss except of space, taking her grandfather and her most superfluous and unsatisfactory cousin Trent with her. There would remain enough to make a book of the first class. The humours of the shop and the pilgrimage are almost, if not quite, independent of the unhappy ending. We should not lose Codlin and Short themselves, or Mrs. Jarley, or other treasures. The Brassesclose, of course, to the Squeerses and even to the Fagin household,

but saved, like the former, if not like all the latter, by humourQuilp, an impossibility, equally of course, but, again, saved from mere loathsomeness by a fantastic grotesque which is almost diablerie; and, above all, Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness would abide with us as they do. There have been some, it is believed, who regard the prodigal son of Dorsetshire (that small but delightful county bred the Dorrits, too, but cannot be so proud of them; and, though it has had important offspring in literature since, has been unfairly merged in Wessex) as one of Dickenss choicest achievements, while the Marchioness herself (would there were more of her!) is simply uniquethe sentimental note being never forced, the romantic pleasantly indicated and the humorous triumphantly maintained.

Treves fictionalized Merrick much as Dickens had little Nell in The Old Curiosity
Shop (1841). In discussing Freud's Wolf Man, Peter Brooks points out the connection between case history and fiction. Case histories are stories didactically presented to the public; they are exemplary biography (284). Certainly the lives of both Merrick and Little Nell served as lessons to the Victorians. Both figures emerge as long-sufferers who earn death as relief from pilgrimlike wandering, travail, and victimization. Both have heroic rescuers who remove them from society and find them sanctuaries in which to die. And the praises of both are couched in similar language. Dickens's schoolmaster in The Old Curiosity Shop listens to Nell Trent with astonishment: This child!" he thought. "Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts and dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone! And yet the world is full of such heroism. [65] Dickens and Treves chronicled their stories as they did because they felt that their readers wanted to believe in such heroism and in easeful death as a reward for it. But then so did the two authors. Dickens always tried to reassure himself that his young sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth, had died peacefully and was in some way requited for her good, short life. Similarly, Treves needed over thirty years to convince himself that his charge had not laid down his ungainly head in order to spare London Hospital the trouble of his upkeep, but in fact had simply needed to "sleep" like others. There is nonetheless a darker side to Little Nell's story as there is to Merrick's and to Dickens's own. For if Dickens's memory canonized Mary Hogarth, it also captured horrific and macabre images of dead men in the Paris morgue. In "Travelling Abroad," from The Uncommercial Traveller (1861), the novelist would write that he was haunted by a mental picture of a drowned man whom he had seen laid out in that house of death. Darkened and disfigured by water, the remembered and recreated drowned man pursued Dickens to the public baths and then onward for the better part of a week. Earlier, in Dickens's fiction, Daniel Quilp, Little Nell's cruel, lecherous persecutor in The Old Curiosity Shop, knew just such a disfiguring death. In more ways than one it would befit him, for Quilp, like Varney, was a monster of selfdestruction. [106/107] From his first entry into Dickens's novel, Quilp is depicted as deformed both inside and out: The child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard features and forbidding aspect, and so low in statute as to be quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a giant, His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and chin, bristly with the stubble of a course hard beard; and his complexion was one of that kind which

never looks clean or wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque expression of his face, was a ghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of habit and to have no connexion with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. [OCS, 65] Later, Kit calls him "the ugliest dwarf that could be seen anywheres for a penny" (95), while others dub him "monster." Like Merrick, Quilp is of freak-show proportions, although unlike him he becomes everybody's dreaded, darker other self, especially Nell's -- Dickens makes this clear by creating several more innocuous "monsters": the crippled Master Humphrey, the deformed factory worker, and the group of circus freaks. None of these figures has an interior to match his physical deformity, a realization that Nell quickly makes. Her sympathy with them and her horror over Quilp are meant to be a moral index for Dickens's readers. Quilp will eventually haunt Nell's nightmares and become confounded in her dreamlife with Mrs. Jarley's waxwork figures of murderers and wild boys. By day a sexual threat, Quilp becomes by night a threat to life itself. Thus Quilp comes to serve as Nell's moral opposite. Evil is excluded from Nell, good from the monstrous Quilp. In keeping with their deserts, they are meted out their deaths. It is important to realize that in The Old Curiosity Shop no one escapes death (See Winslow, 162-167; and Kucich, 58-72). Although Dickens's devotees clamored to save Nell's life, Dickens had to kill his young heroine. Death in this book is inevitable, but it can either be a release -- a beautiful and easy transition like Nell's -- or a torment like Quilp's miserable, self-induced drowning. "Everything in our lives," Dickens tells us, "whether of good or evil, affects us most by contrast" (493). Nell has been faced with inhumanity both in the city, where "ruin and selfmurder" crouched "in every street" (1-2), and on the road; eventually, however, she finds an Edenic, prelapsarian place and slips into a death that seems more like birth. Quilp, on the other hand, locks himself away from all possible aid, loses his footing, and drowns miserably in the Thames [107/108] Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with his hands, and looking out with wild and glaring eyes that showed him some black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He could touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud cry now -- but the resistless water bore him down before he could give it utterance, and, driving him under it, carried away a corpse. [620] Quilp is one of Dickens's "accidental" suicides. Attempting to escape his fate like cruel Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist, Quilp actually seals it. In each of their cases, self-destruction works like the hand of justice. Their worlds are bestial, primitive, and sexual -- frought with dangerous forces seemingly beyond individual control. Nevertheless their excessive desperation to live is what causes their demise. In the world of The Old Curiosity Shop, to accept death quietly is to conquer it, while to attempt to escape it is to succumb to it. Dickens reinforces this lesson by making the deaths of his two characters nearly simultaneous. In Nell's case, he tells us, it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty, universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the pointing spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven. [659]

In Quilp's case, however, we learn of the harsh consequences of excessive and senselessly cruel vitality. Quilp has become the primitive, death-fearful second self that many Victorians strove to hide or kill. Fittingly, the inquest on his body determines that Quilp was felo-de-se, and he is left to be buried at a cross-roads with a stake through the heart. Although rumor contends that this grisly ceremony was dispensed with, it is clear that Dickens wanted his villain associated with the demonic in the minds of his readers. Dickens paired sentimental and suicidal deaths in several of his earlier novels. In Dombey and Son (1848), young Paul Dombey embraces death and is easily borne away on an ocean of immortality, while Carker meets a bloody end by suicide on the railway tracks. In Nicholas Nickleby (1838-39), Smike is unafraid to die and "almost" does not wish to recover from his final illness, while his father, Ralph Nickleby, shakes his fist at the world in frenzied hatred as he prepares to hang himself. Carker and Ralph Nickleby are not accidental suicides. Tired of their misdeeds, these two will to die. More men than monsters, they finish [108/109] life aware of their capacity for cruelty. They therefore do not become emblems of bestiality but rather of calculated and misguided behavior -- in death as in life. Thus the demonic imagery of otherness that surrounds Quilp inside and out haunts Ralph Nickleby mainly from the outside. On his last night, Nickleby conjures up images of suicide. As he passes a graveyard, he recalls being a juryman for a felo-de-se, remembers the look of the corpse, and then sees a macabre, hump-backed figure performing what looks like a dance of death. For a while he becomes softened, but a vision of crippled Smike on his deathbed rekindles his hatred of Nicholas Nickleby. When he looks about -- and inside -- for a devil to help him out of his frenzy, only the image of the suicide appears. And Ralph Nickleby, who could have converted himself into a better man as Scrooge does, instead transforms himself into a dead man. As Nickleby prepares to hang himself, he is addressed by voices on the other side of the door. When he answers, the outsiders do not at all recognize his voice, " 'That's not Mr. Nickleby's voice surely,' was the rejoinder. It was not like it, but it was Ralph Nickleby who spoke," (Dickens, 906) says Dickens's narrator. The voice belongs to a living man who has already pledged himself to death -- to Ralph Nickleby as other, Nickleby has sealed his fate by internalizing the suicide that so haunted his memory.

"Face Threats" in The Old Curiosity Shop and Little Dorrit

Professionalism is only one attitude that may threaten people's desires to be a part of a social interaction or be unimpeded in their actions. Dickens' novels display such simple face threats very often when a villainous character has an interaction with a child or a weak figure. The Old Curiosity Shop provides several examples through Quilp's interactions with Nell, the Grandfather or Mrs. Quilp. At the end of Chapter 5, running also into the following chapter, Quilp and Little Nell have a conversation that is worth studying. Quilp greets Little Nell "with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and a yellow handkerchief over his head" (Old Curiosity Shop 90) as well as a strong exclamation that startles the child. The conversation lacks formal greetings, salutations and farewells that conventionally indicate due respect to the interactants' faces. As Erving Goffman observes, greetings are significant indicators that the encounter "involves sufficient suppression of hostility for the participants temporarily to drop their guards and talk" (41). In this case Quilp threatens the conditions under which a mutually controlled and balanced exchange of information can take place, and he instead establishes a superiority over the little girl. The style,

direction, content and duration of the dialogue is determined by him, whereas Nell should ideally have the right and duty to determine those factors as well. Dickens also notes that even the appearance of the man "was something fearful to behold" (Old Curiosity Shop 90), but Quilp makes the encounter even more difficult and unusual for Nell by asking her if she can see "a boy standing on his head" (90). For someone like Nell, who is not accustomed to Tom Scott's unusual way of protesting his boss, this question is out of context and thus confusing. Consequently, the reader is told that Nell stands "timidly by" and shows "some fear and distrust of the little man" (90). After the period of silence during which Quilp reads the letter Nell has brought, she is again startled by his loud "halloa here!" (92). Quilp has already frightened Nell by his physical appearance, loud voice and total disregard for conventional forms of conversation; during the rest of the scene his insistence on learning if Nell knows anything about the contents of the letter takes on a physically intimidating nature: "Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?" (Old Curiosity Shop 92), he asks her. His further inquiry about Nell's desire to be his second wife is also unexpected and completely out of place as he is already married and Nell is only a child. Nell is frightened by the question even when she does not understand its full nature. When she does understand, she "shrank from him in a great agitation, and trembled violently" (93). Although it is obvious that she is more frightened that anything else, the situation is also embarrassing for her. She is further intimidated by not being permitted to go home, which is literally an impediment to her desire to act freely. In this scene Nell is severely harassed, but her fears and embarrassment do not lead to any reaction in order to change her position in the interaction. However, embarrassment may bring along an active protest of the intimidating and embarrassing face threat in an effort to get out of that situation through what Erving Goffman calls "face saving practices" (15-19). The conversations that take place between Amy, Fanny and later William Dorrit regarding Amy's "infamous" conduct in Chapter 31 of Little Dorrit show face saving practices which arise after the face threats. This scene is very complicated in terms of face threats since it involves threats imposed by almost all parties on others and the subtle relationship between intimidation and embarrassment becomes very explicit. Here Amy Dorrit is walking towards the Marshalsea Prison with Mr. Nandy, and as the running title of the page states, "she appears in public with a pauper" (Little Dorrit 417). Fanny meets the couple just before they reach the prison door and instead of the usual forms of greeting, she makes a curious observation: "Why, good gracious me, Amy!...You never mean it!" (Little Dorrit 417). Amy is confused by her sister's obscure comment and asks her what she means. The explanation she gets from Fanny is far from satisfactory, moreover insulting: "Well! I could have believed a great deal of you," returned the young lady with burning indignation, "but I don't think even I could have believed this of even you!" "Fanny!" cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished. "Oh! Don't Fanny me, you mean little thing, don't! The idea of coming along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!"... "O Fanny!"

"I tell you not to Fanny me, for I'll not submit to it! I never knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!" (Little Dorrit 417) One may object to Fanny's accusations of Amy's disgracing all Dorrits by stating that Amy does not have nor want a public image that may be endangered by her appearance with Mr. Nandy. However, Amy certainly wants her own desires, in this case her desire to please Mr. Nandy, to be shared by her family. Thus she has threatened her own positive face in this situation. At the same time she has (as Fanny explicitly states) disregarded her family's pretentious but nevertheless maintained public image of gentility. These two conflicting obligations put Amy in an awkward situation. Fanny's treatment of Amy is intimidating, not only by the nature of the accusations but also by the language she uses for her sister. "Mean little thing," "bad little thing," (Little Dorrit 417, 418) and later "common-minded little Amy," "complete prison-child" and "prevaricating little piece of goods" (417, 419<) are discouragingly accusing and belittling. Frightened and upset, Amy cannot even suggest that there is no essential difference in "social worth" between the Dorrits and Mr. Nandy. Instead, she is "wounded and astonished" (417, 418<), "pale and trembling" and remorseful (417, 419). All these symptoms suggest that she is afraid of keeping in line with her conduct. Thus she tries to make up for the harm she has done to her family face and apologises. Although Fanny's furious reaction to Amy's offence is disproportionate with the supposed crime, it is not totally unjustified; Fanny has, in fact, lost face : her public image has been threatened by Amy's action. Instead of the more expected reactions of intimidation and embarrassment, this face threat gives rise to a "burning indignation" in Fanny. As Christopher Ricks indicates, "Indignation stands interestingly to embarrassment; the one hot flush drives out the other, as fire fire, so that a common way of staving off embarrassment one would otherwise feel is by inciting oneself to indignation" (3). Thus, consciously or unconsciously, Fanny deals with her embarrassment by translating her upset emotional state from embarrassment to anger. As Ricks observes, indignation also attracts enough public attention to justify the attempts to heal the damage of the face threat just experienced (3). In this case, too, Fanny's behaviour provokes Mr. Dorrit's own embarrassment and he therefore accuses Amy of humiliating him. After Amy's apology, however, Fanny's indignation is replaced by embarrassment once again, this time for her own harsh attitude towards her little sister, and Fanny begins to cry "with a partly angry and partly repentant sob" (417, 420). Amy is intimidated and confused not only by Fanny's cruel words but also by her father's gently expressed disappointment in her. Mr. Dorrit's claim that Amy has humiliated him is a threat to Amy's desire to be a perfect daughter. She is embarrassed for two reasons which may seem contradictory at first: for one, she is embarrassed at being the black sheep of the family and threatening the family's public image. But she is also obviously embarrassed by that pretentious public image of gentility as well. Therefore her first apology is for whatever she may have unintentionally done that has offended her family (Little Dorrit 417, 419). After Mr. Dorrit explains the nature of her offence, she attempts to explain her behaviour: I don't justify myself for having wounded your dear heart .... I do nothing but beg and pray you be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I would not indeed. 417, 420)

This humble apology indicates that as much as she is sorry for what she has done, she is embarrassed and confused by the inconsistency in the family's relationship with Mr. Nandy. Fanny's impoliteness obviously plays an important role in intimidating Amy; however, politeness itself may have similar consequences. Mrs. Quilp's tea party portrays a very polite Quilp who nevertheless intimidates his mother-in-law. Everyone with whom Quilp interacts is intimidated by his verbal or physical threats; on the other hand, his politeness is so obviously exaggerated and out of his public image that it is hard for Mrs. Jiniwin to cope with this new image as well. His politeness makes it necessary for everyone to adjust their attitude towards him although they know that his politeness is not genuine. Mrs. Jiniwin has been discussing Quilp's rudeness and tyranny for some time when the man himself shows up as a "gentleman" to contradict her claims. Aware of Quilp's dislike for visitors, Mrs. Jiniwin tries to justify her daughter's tea party, and to her great surprise Quilp seems to agree with everything she says. Although Quilp does not explicitly intimidate her, to have to deal with a Quilp so out of face makes Mrs. Jiniwin uncomfortable. She starts "trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of her impish son-in-law" (Old Curiosity Shop 80). As in the case of Fanny Dorrit, Mrs. Jiniwin's indignation is the replacement for her embarrassment. Quilp has threatened her dignified mother-in-law image by contradicting her observations about his tyranny. He makes fun of her by being out of face, thus threatening the offensive stand she has taken against him. The social interactions studied so far involve face threats posed unintentionally, as in the case of Little Dorrit's offence to her family's public image, intentionally due to justifiable (like Fanny's intimidating anger directed toward Amy) or unjustifiable reasons (such as Quilp's verbal harassment and intimidation of Nell). The examples of conversation studied in this paper are too few to offer a thorough analysis of the many ways characters intimidate and embarrass others or eliminate those feelings in Dickens' novels . Regardless of the nature or manner of these violations or threats of face, they all carry with them a vitality that enlivens the scene and provide extra tension for the reader. As a master of handling tension, Dickens no doubt benefits from these scenes and uses them as yet another trademark of his mastery.

The Old Curiosity Shop: Laughter and Pathos, [Introduction]

"I hate your virtuous people!" said the dwarf, throwing off a bumper of brandy, and smacking his lips, "ah! I hate 'em every one!" [XLVIII]

Dick Swiveller steps into the Old Curiosity Shop for the first time in order to introduce the logic of Mr. Wardle: "Why should a grandson and grandfather peg away at each other with mutual wiolence when all might be bliss and concord ? Why not jine hands and forget it?" (II). Why not indeed ? It is just this argument which could settle for ever the friendly differences in Pickwick Papers; it is a sane argument and ought to have great force in a sane world. But it has no relevance at all to the madhouse world of The Old Curiosity Shop, and Dick Swiveller is funny precisely because he is so incongruously sane. He sees, for instance, that Nell's grandfather is really "the jolly old grandfather" and Fred "the wild young grandson" of the comic theatre and that everything ought to come out "all right and comfortable". But no one will play these reasonable roles; "the old dotard", as Quilp not unfairly calls him, becomes a type of demonic selfishness, and Fred sinks in lurid degradation. Dick suggests that they all

pack up and go to Dingley Dell. But there is no room for the bright simplicity of Dingley Dell in this novel; it is both too dark and too complex. There is, for instance, an awful and subtle irony in the narrative structure. For all the travelling and frantic rushing about that goes on, no one really moves anywhere or finally escapes from the pursuers (both Miller, pp. 95-6; Kirkpatrick, p. 20, argue that the immic, identification of rural "escape" with death functions as a criticism of the ending of Oliver Twist).This irony is also present in [76/77] the narrative tone. For all the "quietness" (to Thomas Latimer, Letters, i. 305, 13 Mar. 1841) Dickens worked forand achieved-in the atmosphere, there is an underlying bitterness and a dominant motif of retribution which makes this quietness much more sinister and dark than soft and sad. But soft and sad we continue to think it, and complexity is about the last quality ordinarily granted to The Old Curiosity Shop. More than any other Dickens novel, this one has tended to be rewritten in critical mythology and has become grossly oversimplified in the process. For many, in fact, the novel has been distilled into the climactic page and a half, of which the following is a fair example: "She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird -- a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed -- was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever" (LXXI). Perhaps even this is not representative, for the bitterness reflected in this passage, the rather ugly vindictiveness suggested by the reference to the bird, and the strange urge to wallow not with Nell but with the worms are not part of the popular myth. The Old Curiosity Shop has often become "The Death of Nell", and even that episode has been simplified in this century to the image of "ineptitude and vulgar sentimentality" (the phrase is Aldous Huxley's, p. 57) attending the awful iambs with which the two-headed monster (this one is Swinburne's, p. 22) is slaughtered. The contrasts between the Victorian response to Nell and our own have been often described and variously explained. Obviously more is involved in this change than can be [77/78] discussed here, but one thing, at least, seems to me clear. Our rather hysterical rejection of Nell is at least as much a rejection of those crowds on the docks in America, waiting for the ships from England and calling out, "Is Nell dead?", as it is of the novel itself. We strongly resist identifying ourselves with that group and that society, partly, I suppose, out of the snobbery which, assuming the progress of taste, allows us to sneer at the Victorians; but surely more important is the inability to respond to or even admit the existence of the extraordinarily intimate appeals in that novel. We may laugh at the boorishness of those who could admire such unsophisticated art, but there is something challenging and therefore frightening about the openness with which they invested so much of themselves in Nell. There is the same threat and challenge in the novel itself. When Dickens speaks in the Preface of "the many friends it won me, and the many hearts it turned to me when they were full of private sorrow", he is talking about something more than a novel, and he is asking for something more than a conventional response. The Old Curiosity Shop, for all its hatred of Little Bethel, uses evangelical rhetoric and clearly expects something like a religious conversion to Nellyism. In this expectation, then, the novel is clearly antagonistic, implying that a failure of response is not an aesthetic but a spiritual failure. And the proof of responsiveness is very simple and very extreme -- tears. The Old Curiosity Shop is alone among Dickens's novels in being so emphatically centred on the dominant emotion of pathos, the most horrifying and deceptive of appeals. As Northrop Frye says, "Pathos, though it seems a gentler and more relaxed mood than tragedy, is even more terrifying. Its basis is the exclusion of an individual from a group, hence it attacks the deepest fear in ourselves that we possess" (p. 217). The intimacy demanded by the novel, then, is an intimacy with desolation and death. We tend to escape these extremities, paradoxically, by concentrating

on Nell alone; for even though she is the central figure of the pathos, the weight of the rhetorical burden is carried by other figures. While it is certainly true that Nell can, by herself, support [78/79] very little meaning or emotion, she does receive enormous reflexive strength from her surroundings. Dickens's decision to surround Nell with the "grotesque and wild" (Preface, p. xii) was made not simply to gain picturesqueness but also to provide complexity and strength to the central figure and the central emotion. To a very large extent, Nell is made possible by Quilp and by Dick Swiveller, and the pathos is guaranteed by the humour. For it was laughter that moved those dock crowds as well as tears, and laughter is primarily important in fixing our relationship to the central figure. In fact, for all its celebration of the grave, The Old Curiosity Shop is rooted in a comic impulse. Certainly the impulse is perverted and narrow, but it is there none the less. Since Dick cannot carry everyone off to Dingley Dell, we all go to the churchyard; Nell is fed to the worms in lieu of a Christmas festival. The unconscious logic of this movement towards death is comic in the sense that it is so strongly dedicated to youth and so violently opposed to age: if youth and its attendant values can no longer win in this world, then they will turn to the greater victory in death, thereby defying the aged, who want them to adopt their corruption. The grave becomes almost sanctified. In the child's defiance of the parent and the protection of the pleasure principle through suicide, the novel suggests the last desperately ingenious defence of the comic spirit. But this description puts too grossly what is in the novel a subtle and submerged tendency. It is also true that this suicidal tendency is disguised by the existence of its opposite: the glorification of the grave is matched by a repulsion from it. At one point Dickens says that to mourn the death of children is to forget the "bright and happy existence [to which] those who die young are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of seeing others die around them" (XXVI). This, it must be admitted, is not an indication of subtlety or complexity; it is mere confusion. Death is seen both as a victory and as an escape from the pain which somehow comes from seeing others attain that victory. Dickens's ambivalence towards death neutralizes any meaning. The ambivalence is understandable, of course, but it does tend to weaken the novel by dissolving many of its ironies. The perverse comedy of Nell cannot ultimately be [79/80] sustained because the grave cannot be sanctified for the young. The old die too. But because of the conflicting attitudes toward death, the comedy can be maintained for long periods, primarily through a relentless underground attack on the old. At the funeral of Nell, the narrator makes this attack explicit by arguing that these old horrors are more dead than Nell: "Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old-the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl and creep above it!" (LXXII). Notice that these ancient vermin "crawl and creep", quite a change from old Wardle and old Pickwick. Usually, however, Dickens's attack is much more subtle and uses the mask of humour. Even Dick Swiveller contributes to this warfare: ". . . these old people there's no trusting 'em, Fred. There's an aunt of mine down in Dorsetshire that was going to die when I was eight years old, and hasn't kept her word yet. They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so spiteful -- unless there's apoplexy in the family, Fred, you can't calculate upon 'em, and even then they deceive you just as often as not" (VII). The light tone and the physical absence of Dick's aunt provide the disguise for the aggression, but the tendency of the joke is serious indeed. The central symbol for this attack is, of course, Nell's grandfather. Directly responsible for her death by removing her from every point of safety and kindness, he, it is clear, is much closer

even than Quilp to being the chief villain. He serves as the archetypal parental butt, the object of the comic if vicious revenge of the child on the adult. He is allowed none of the conventional superiorities of age; he is simply a "hollow mockery" of "childishness", an adult ludicrously attempting to be a child, but justly (according to the comic logic) denied "the gaiety", "the light and life", "the hope", and "the joys" of childhood. Instead, be is to childhood what "death is [to] sleep" (XII). The key joke against him is, significantly, made by children who run along beside Mrs. Jarley's caravan, "fully impressed with the belief that [Nell's] grandfather was a cunning device in wax" (XXVIII). The point of the joke is certainly clear, and [80/81] it coalesces with many others to reinforce the secret dream wish: that the old might be annihilated. Our laughter here, as in Pickwick Papers, is asked to reject the pompous and stuffy formulas of the old for the freshness of youth. The rejection in The Old Curiosity Shop, however, is much more desperately violent, and the alternative turns out not to be freshness but youthful death. In this basic way, then, laughter pushes us toward the ultimate terror of pathos invested in the solitary child. And it is certainly the pathetic Nell who is at the centre of the novel and who makes the primary demands for our responsiveness. But the dominant critical error is to separate Nell from her surroundings. Despite her central importance, she is defined and made effective by the figures around her. I think we can, therefore, best understand Nell and the pathos she represents by dealing with the major forces exterior to her, primarily those represented by Dick Swiveller and by Daniel Quilp. In this most dreamlike of novels, the connection of the important motifs exists almost entirely beneath the conscious level of the narrative. The major figures and attitudes are logically involved with one another, but the involvement is scarcely explained at all by the logic of the plot. Instead, we have a conflict of very basic tendencies, or, as Gabriel Pearson 7 says, "fields of force", arranged in patterns of opposition and contrast often tangential to the plot itself. On one hand, there is the movement of Nell, her grandfather, Kit and the Garlands. Witherden the Notary, and those associated with this group towards peace, sanctity, the expected, acquiescence, and stasis. Diametrically opposed is the force of Quilp, mostly isolated, but echoed to some extent in Sally Brass and Tom Scott, toward energy, violence, surprise, rebellion, and motion. Paradoxically, the mutual repulsion of these extreme forces tends to push them so far apart from each other that they meet in common self-extermination. Despite Quilp's continual and brilliant parody of the Nelly-group, he ends in the same position [81/82] exactly. As Pearson points out (p. 90), this opposition of forces creates a more and more apparent vacuum in the centre, which becomes filled, more and more adequately, by Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness. Dick is not, I think, primarily a parody on either group but a sane alternative made possible by their extreme and self-destructive antipathy. One can easily see this pattern as a simple extension of the one which existed only in potential in Oliver Twist. Rose Maylie (as Nell) is pushed happily into the grave where she belongs and Fagin (as Quilp) is made specifically subterranean. By carrying these tendencies to their logical conclusions, one could argue, there is room for a middle position in Dick, not possible when the split is as tenuous as in Oliver Twist. At any rate, the unity of The Old Curiosity Shop and its elemental force are determined by these three groups and the ways in which they reflect on one another. The novel is not, however, really kaleidoscopic, nor is the pattern quite this neat. The determining reflections come from outside into Nell, and there is relatively little interplay in the other direction. The main problems, then, have to do with Nell and with the pathos she is meant to generate. In my opinion, the laughter which is exterior but thematically relevant to Nell

makes that pathos possible and effective. Providing for the pathetic is one of the two main rhetorical functions of laughter in this novel; the other is to provide for the final comic solution centred in Dick and the Marchioness. Dickens, by our laughter, leads us to the grave and back again, provides us with tears and with joy. But the tears are unquestionably dominant for a large part of the novel and even help make possible by reaction the final joy. The first and main issue, then, is the relationship in the novel between laughter and pathos. Laughter provides for pathos primarily through its aggressive component. Like the humour of direct attack, it awakens the aggression necessary for laughter and then exposes that aggression by removing the original disguise. Both types of humour also utilize the guilt made possible by this exposure of the reader's callousness. The differences are mainly of intensity and distance. In Oliver Twist the backlash is immediate and the laughter immediately turns round on us; in The Old Curiosity Shop there is vital distance between the laughter and [82/83] the serious reversal, so that the guilt is less felt and less insisted on, and may therefore be transferred to pity or tears. In the latter case, the guilt is a medium, not a final goal, and we are not so much attacked as softened up. Another way to explain this is to use the notion of vulnerability discussed in the first chapter. According to this idea, we release the energies of aggression or hostility only when we are assured by the disguise that it is safe to do so. Once these energies are expended, we are firmly committed and also defenceless, since there is no protection for the exposed impulse. We can, then, be made to react much more intensely to pathetic appeals. To be more specific, in this novel laughter at the Quilp and Swiveller forces, and at the people Nell and her grandfather meet in their travels, is used to heighten the response to Nell's sorrows and trials. A few examples should make this relationship of laughter and pathos clearer. Probably the most basic relationship is rooted in the fact that in Little Nell the novel dedicates itself to all the feminine virtues, whilst at the same time it is inviting us to participate in hostile laughter at all women. The softness, humility, and gentle subservience of women is both staunchly supported and ridiculed. For instance, there is the brilliant humorous triumph of Daniel Quilp over all the neighbourhood women, gathered to sympathize with Mrs. Quilp. Now Betsy Quilp is very nearly Nell's double, but we are by no means invited to share in the cackling neighbours' sympathy for her. We are, in fact, invited to laugh, first, at the cowardice, blind egoism, and petty spitefulness of the neighbours: "Ah! ... I wish you'd give her a little of your advice, Mrs. Jiniwin ... nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us women owe to ourselves." "Owe indeed, ma'am!" replied Mrs. Jiniwin. "When my poor husband, her dear father was alive, if he had ever ventur'd a cross word to me, I'd have-" the good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted off the head of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply that the action was in some degree a substitute for words. [IV] Mrs. Quilp is urged to stand up for her superficial "rights"as a woman, but she cuts through the chorus of self-deception with an admission that substantiates our aggressive laughter: "It's [83/84] very easy to talk, but I say again that I know -- that I'm sure -- Quilp has such a way with him when he likes, that the best-looking woman here couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, and he chose to make love to her. Come!" This provides the perfect comic reversal and the perfect justification for our hostile amusement. Women, we are assured, are ludicrous, and their pretences to power are absurd simply because they are sexually inferior. Their hilarious, snarling reactions to Betsy's truth amount to confessions of impotence: "Before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of him, I'd -- I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!" So when Quilp, the representative of pure male energy, scatters the women

merely by entering and inviting them to supper, the comic triumph is complete. It is capped only by the once-proud Mrs. Jiniwin being forced to go to bed (of all things) against her will. Mothers, wives, and daughters are all routed here in this vigorous humour of expulsion. Much less harsh but certainly parallel is Dick Swiveller's victory over the Wackles gaggle four chapters later. Dick invades the "Ladies' Seminary" ostensibly to escape from his entanglement, but really to demonstrate again the hideousness of the female and to allow Miss Sophy to foil her own predatory plot to catch him by making him jealous of the market-gardener, Cheggs. Even Sophy's sister and fellow-conspirator, young Jane, is described as "prematurely shrill and shrewish", though only sixteen. In this world all women are hags; little girls are hags-intraining. Dick's famous verbal triumph, then, is made more wonderful by being coincident with the general triumph over women: "I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. Swiveller," said Miss Sophy with downcast eyes. "I'm very sorry if -" "Sorry, ma'am!" said Dick, "sorry in the possession of a Cheggs!" [VIII] Dick's phrasing is masterful; Sophy now "possesses" -- and the commercial diction is intentional -- a Cheggs, as if it were a handbag or a curlpaper. Dick's sarcasm is very pointed here; since she is a woman, what right has she to want anything more? She has, after all, received just "what us women owe to ourselves". Examples of humorous assaults on women could be extended [84/85] indefinitely: Miss Monflathers and Sally Brass are flayed alive, and even Mrs. Njibbles comes in for attack on account of her religious stupidity. The existence of this recurrent impulse to attack women would seem to subvert the values associated with Nell and invest that figure with a strong irony, but I think not. There is a long distance between these attacks and Nell, and the very rejection of the feminine makes us all the more ready to respond to it when it is presented seriously. Again, this is a matter of distance and great tact; if Dickens brings the attack and the celebration close together, the result undoubtedly would be parody. But it seems clear that few have ever reacted to Nell as a parody figure, and it must be remembered that while the defence of Nell's virtues is overt and explicit, the attack comes through laughter, which by its very nature hides its source, Thus, since the reader is given a breathing spell, the laughter is preparatory to pathos; our aggression against the feminine is activated again and again, but we are never forced to admit this aggression consciously, The hostility is therefore drained rather than focused and is redirected to a more intense pity for the threatened femininity of Nell. Perhaps an even clearer example of the comic-pathetic interrelationship is provided by the use made of jokes on loneliness to heighten our feeling for Nell's desolation. There axe, for example, many jokes specifically involving the confusion of friend and foe. First, there is & fixed notion of the business manager of the travelling Punch show: "Recollect the friend. Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin -not Short" (XIX). The dark point of this humour is that neither is friendly and that both are willing to sell out Nell for the proper sum, The distinctions we are asked to make between the gruff and grim misanthrope, Codlin, and the jolly Short Trotters break down; there is no play on the appearance-reality theme here, except that under all appearances is the uniform bleak selfishness which causes everyone to be completely alone and friendless. This same point is made through humour several times by Quilp. A good deal of his success rides on just this confusion of friend and enemy, with the same awful point about human desolation being made. He traps Fred Trent, for instance, with just this ruse: "You little knew who was your friend, and who [85/86] your foe: now did you?" (XXIII). Ironically, Quilp is at least an enemy, and the

existence of feeling, even of negative feeling, is better than the black indifference of Codlin and Short. Finally, in the case of the Marchioness, we have the most extensive humorous treatment of this theme of loneliness, and a completion of the three-sided humorous pattern which reflects on Nell from each of the fields of force. The Marchioness is desperately lonely but combats this, at least partially, through the resources available to her through the keyhole. Though a very complex figure, she has a fund of protective Freudian humour at her disposal which makes it possible for us, at least at first, to conserve our pity and laugh at her. The Brasses treat her purely as a thing, a noise-maker: "We have been moving chests of drawers over [the lodger's] head, we have knocked double knocks at the street-door, we have made the servant-girl fall down stairs several times, (she's a light weight, and it don't hurt her much,) but nothing wakes him" (XXXV). The laughter in all three areas of the novel prepares us for the pathos attending the dominant emotion, the awful isolation caused by the individual pursuit of selfish concerns. At the centre of the novel is this vision of alienation, of man lost in a purely atomistic society, "an atom, here, in a mountain-heap of misery" (XLIV). Our previous laughter at the failure of human concern, at the absence of human friendship, prepares us for the heart of the pathos: the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by the hurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mournfully on; feeling, amidst the crowd, a solitude which has no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, who, test to and fro upon the billows of a mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his burning tongue. [XLIV] Even the parallel to Coleridge's poem is ironic, for the loneliness here is the more awful loneliness "amidst the crowd", a crowd which emphatically does not hold out the possibility of grace or redemption, even if the commercial water-snakes are blessed. The jokes have been used as preparatory notes to establish in the reader a readiness for, really a susceptibility to, this appeal. [86/87] The most important support for this pathetic and serious appeal comes from the humour associated with the three basic sections of the novel: the Nelly-group; its polar opposite, the Quilp-group; finally, the resultant Swiveller-group.